


if my heart stops beating, we'll bleed the same way

by swimthewholeriogrande



Series: if you wanna find love then you know where the city is [2]
Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Denial, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Protectiveness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2019-07-02 23:29:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15806736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swimthewholeriogrande/pseuds/swimthewholeriogrande
Summary: Spot has nowhere to bring Race but home, and reflects on the way just why he's doing it at all.





	if my heart stops beating, we'll bleed the same way

**Author's Note:**

> i got a good response so i'd thought i'd update again! hope you guys enjoy and it causes maximum suffering that's the aim

It was still snowing, and a doctor never came.

Spot couldn't say it was surprising - the person he yelled at to fetch one had probably run in the opposite direction as soon as they were out of sight. Even though he had only half-hoped to be listened to, it was hard not to feel like what adults always told him he was ; an invisible, useless street rat. A street rat who had a dying boy on his legs. He'd never felt less important. 

After a few minutes of waiting for help, Spot knew he had to at least get Race out of the cold. The other boy had gone worryingly quiet, only hissing out a half-hearted complaint when Spot tried to maneuver him into his arms to lift. Spot was strong enough but Race was more than a few inches taller than him, which Spot usually tried to deny, but God he was feeling those few inches now. He managed to stand with the dead weight, staggering a little, and then realised he had no idea where to go.

It wasn't like he could bring Racetrack back to the Brooklyn lodging house, and knocking on any doors around them would surely end up with Spot soaked just as bad for his impudence. There was only one place that would take Race - and bringing him there might ignite the boroughs' war even more. 

There was nothing to be done. Spot started towards Manhattan with Race's head lolling against his shoulder, stiff blond hair curling against his neck. The other boy's cap was long gone, no doubt still where he'd been attacked. Had they dragged him from Sheepshead? Or ambushed him on the way? Had he even made it all the way across the bridge? Spot bit his lip hard enough to draw blood. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He shouldn't have arranged to meet Race. 

He shouldn't be with Race, ever.

It stung but only because it was true. Spot knew that what they were was wrong, knew that Race did too, but there was something so incredibly necessary about it that Spot couldn't bear to lose. Race was his best friend. They just - did things differently than other best friends did, Spot thought firmly, and no one ever had to know. No one ever could know.

Spot had always been good to his boys - he protected them from hunger, from violence (as best he could), but he couldn't always protect them from each other. His newsies were all in all decent, but there were a few that slipped through the net as it were, and he'd had to have words with them after they beat the shit out of Twitch for kissing a messenger boy. It was hard to do while trying to act impartial, and even harder when Twitch told him the messenger boy wouldn't talk to him anymore, thoroughly scared of what was brewing inside him. 

Spot was no...whatever it was. He just wanted Race and no one knew so it wasn't a problem, he didn't wake up sweating, it was fine. 

Lost in thought, Spot didn't clock where he was until Manhattan was nearly upon him. He knew he could find a newsie there to hand Race off to and go back home, but the idea of leaving Race was vulnerable - his broken fingers still trying to curl into Spot's vest - was just impossible to conceive. He had to go wherever Race was going, always, or at least for now.

Racetrack was just starting to stir again when they crossed the invisible but bloody border. He was still relatively limp but he rolled his head against Spot's shoulder to look around.

"M'nhattan," he slurred, "You gotta go home fore Jack...Spot."

Spot held on tighter. "I gotta get you to your boys, Racer. Then I'll go." It was a lie.

Race immediately changed his tune. "No, don't, Spottie, don't go. Gotta talk to Jack. Sheepshead." His pupils were enormous, world-consuming with concussion, and Spot sped up. "Don't go 'way. Want you here."

"Yeah, okay," Spot muttered. As great as it was to see Spot halfway coherent, it wouldn't do him any good if he didn't get help. Thank God it didn't take long before he heard an odd set of footsteps - two normal ones and then the click of wood on stone - and Kelly's friend with the twisted foot came into view.

"Racetrack!" was all he shouted, barely noticing who was carrying him, but Race's head had already lolled again. Spot cursed at that and Crutchie - that was his name - immediately locked eyes with him.

"You." he growled, suddenly terrifying for someone barely the same size of Spot. "What happened?" 

"You really think I did this an' then busted my ass carryin' him here?" Spot growled. "You wanna help him or not?'

A voice came from behind Spot then, a voice that had inspired a revolution and now inspired awe - however much they denied it - in every newsie in New York. He couldn't help but tense up, and Crutchie took on a smug sort of expression when he saw Spot stiffen.

"What the fuck," Jack Kelly seethed, "have you done?"


End file.
